I avert my gaze because I can’t bring myself to look at him directly. He’s like an eclipse, fascinating, all-consuming…
And liable to cause permanent damage.
It shouldn’t be like this, though. Not with us.
I’ve always been able to tell Preston anything. It’s part of the reason I feel this unexplainable connection to him.
There are no pretenses between us. We’re messy and fucked up. But we’re real.
So why am I afraid to confront him about this?
Because you might lose him—my mind unhelpfully chimes in.
“I’m worried about you,” I utter, forcing myself to meet his eyes.
I can’t keep pretending that him gambling to the extent he does is normal when it’s not.
I didn’t want to be added to the list of people who give him grief for it, because I want him to know he has someone in his corner who will never judge him for his flaws, but it’s clear this is way past a harmless hobby.
And the more I ignore it…the more I enable him.
He crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m fine.”
I seriously hate confrontation, but this has gone on long enough.
“You have a problem,” I tell him, hoping my tone conveys how serious this is.
But it doesn’t because he snorts. “The only problem I have is with that damn dog. I’m giving Darius one more week—”
“This isn’t about Lola,” I interject because I don’t want him to change the subject or skirt around it. “This is about your gambling addiction.”
There. The Band-Aid’s ripped off.
Preston’s brows rise, his expression a mixture of confusion and annoyance. “Gambling addiction?”
It’s hard to believe Preston isn’t self-aware enough to know what I’m referring to. He’s the smartest—and most brutally honest—person I know.
“You go to the casino almost every day.”
His eyes darken. “And?”
Not backing down, I draw in a deep breath. Maybe presenting him with some facts will make him see things more clearly.
“You were living in a run-down motel room in Vegas because of your gambling.” I begin ticking things off with my fingers, even though I’ll probably run out of them by the time I’m finished.
“You were almost killed by Russian mobsters…and Campanelli on separate occasions because of your gambling.” I press my thumb to my chest. “You almost got me killed because of your gambling.” He tries to speak, but I’m not done. “You moonlight as a sugar baby for old women because of your gambling. You stole an innocent dog because of your gambling.” My voice drops to a whisper because I know the next one is a sore spot for him. “You no longer have a relationship with your brother because of your gambling.”
A vein in his neck bulges and his features tighten with contempt. “Are you done?”
Not pressing the issue any further would make things easier for him. Because then he wouldn’t have to come to terms with his addiction and deal with the underlying issues that caused it.
“I’m not trying to condemn or attack you. I’m just trying to make you see why it’s a problem so you can do something about it.”
For a moment I wonder if I’m being too hard on him and if this was the wrong approach, but before I can scrutinize the thought any further, he surges forward and grabs my chin. Not enough to hurt me, but enough to make sure he has my undivided attention.
“I don’t have to do shit.” His furious gaze burns right through me. He’s so angry he’s vibrating with it. “Fuck you and fuck whatever this is. I’m done.”
Before I can blink, he stalks toward the front door, evading me and the conversation.
Everything inside me goes haywire because this is exactly what I was afraid of and if he leaves like this, there’s a high probability he won’t ever come back.
“Let me guess,” I call out as I follow him. “You’re running off to the casino.”
I’m doubling down, but I can’t bring myself to stop. If I could make him realize that gambling his demons away only breeds new ones, maybe he’d potentially get some help.
But I’m probably wasting my breath because his drug of choice is still pumping through his system…rendering him unable to understand how this is ruining his life.
I refuse to give up on him, though.
I grab his arm when I catch up with him. “I care about you, Preston.” My heart pounds like a scared mouse trying to flee from an approaching snake. “So much.”
“Spare me your intervention bullshit.” He spins around with so much force I almost lose my footing. “For a moment I thought you finally woke up and realized what a fuck up I am.”
“You’re not a fuckup. You’re someone who needs help.”
Help and support.
Shooting me a sardonic smile, he pinches my cheek. “And there she is. The girl who doesn’t have an ounce of self-preservation because she’s so desperate to be loved she’ll accept anything.” He bares his teeth. “Your pathetic little martyr act isn’t attractive. Stop being so weak and grow a goddamn backbone.” His face goes slack. “I’ll be back for my shit after the party.”
Hurt people…hurt people. I know this.
Yet his words still sucker punch me in the chest. “I guess we’ve reached the part where you push me away because I dug too deep and called you on your shit. Shocker.” I poke him with my finger. “I might crave love and be too sensitive for my own good, but at least I’m honest about who I am and own it…which is a hell of a lot more than I can say for you, you fucking coward.”
To anyone else, he would appear unfazed, but I know him. The flash of challenge in his eyes tells me my arrow hit the intended target.
Anger colors his words as he leans in, his tone threatening. “I’m not a coward.”
“Then for once in your life don’t run away.” A lump fills my throat. “I know it’s scary and uncomfortable to talk about your issues and open up to someone, but you’re safe with me.”
He backs up, putting several feet between us. “It’s not me I’m worried about.”
Despite what he thinks, I’m a lot stronger than I look. Losing both your parents and having a grandmother who hated you for something beyond your control will do that to you.
“I can handle it.”
He doesn’t look convinced, but I don’t have time to dwell on that because he turns to the front door. “I’ll be back later.”
“Where are you going?” I ask, even though I’m fully aware.
I watch the muscles in his back coil underneath the dark fabric of his shirt. “Don’t ask questions you won’t like the answers to.”
My heart twists and drops, making its objection known.
“I never thought someone as tough as you could be controlled by a deck of cards and some chips.”
It’s a cheap shot, but I’m out of options.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” he snaps, his voice gruff. “It doesn’t control me…I control it.”
That isn’t the way addiction works.
“Fine,” I counter, my brain scrambling, frantically searching for some way to get him to stop gambling. Even for a little while. “If you really have control over it like you claim, then quit.”